Shiver Me Timbers
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Ahoy, ye scabbers' dogs. It's Halloween and Jenny is dressed as a Pirate come to plunder Gibbs. Unabashed smut. Drink up, me hearties, yo ho. M/Jibbs.


_A/N: Halloween is my mother's favorite holiday, but let's face it-this fic has nothing to do with my mother (and, god willing, she'll never learn of its existence). That being said, it's in my genes to adore this spooky holiday, and I usually do try to play with themes a little bit around it. Last year's was much less smutty-and on that note, this is me dropping a PWP treat into your candy bag. _

_I'd like to thank all the Castle smut I've been reading lately for convincing me that I can go back to writing plotless X rated one-shots for my favorite ill-fated couple. I'd also like to thank all the time I spent dabbling in the POTC fandom for giving me a familiarity in, ah,_ nautical_ terms. Savvy? _

* * *

He was spending his evening in the usual uneventful, predictable way—bourbon, boat, basement—and hiding away from the ghoulish festivities of the holiday, when he heard confident clicking on the linoleum above him; Jenny came walking down the old wooden stairs, holding a sealed bottle of whiskey, wearing a butterscotch coloured trench coat and thigh black leather boots—at least, he assumed they were thigh-high because he couldn't see where they ended for the coat.

Suddenly, his night got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.

"Trick or treat, Jethro," she greeted wickedly, and there was something biting and sexy to the way she said it that had him half hard in an instant.

She had better be here for what he thought she was.

She took several aggressive steps into his basement and slammed the bourbon offering down on his workbench, a graceful hand slipping into her pocket and reappearing with something black and stringy—_thong?_ He thought hopefully—that she stretched around her fingers deftly.

She lifted her arms and tossed her hair, sliding the black thing around her head—well in _that_ case he hoped it _wasn't_ a thong—and then shaking out her curls with her hands so they looked long and messy and—

-he didn't know what else because he forgot what adjectives were.

She was now standing a few tantalizingly short strides away from him in that trench that hugged her indecently in the hip-waist-chest area, thigh-high boots, and an eye-patch.

The Director of NCIS was standing in his basement in a velvet black _eye-patch_.

He leaned on the boat for support and met her eyes—wait, no, _eye—with_ an appreciative look, his hand flexing slightly next to his thigh. He shoved his hand into his pocket and cleared his throat.

"You, uh, lose a fight with some mascara, Jen?"

The corners of her mouth turned up in a smirk, and he took that moment to notice the ruby red lipstick staining her lips—_blood-red_ was a good word, and speaking of blood—where was all of his?

She reached up and delicately fingered the top button of her coat, pushing it through its hole with slow, deliberate movements.

"I've come to commandeer your ship, Captain Gibbs," she purred, still looking at him in rare, naughty way, while her hands slipped to the next button.

He only saw bare flesh beneath the unopened collar of her coat.

"Boat," he corrected, narrowing his eyes.

She crinkled her nose; she undid the next button.

"Boat, ship. You're still getting boarded."

"Too small to be a ship."

She clicked her tongue, puckering her lips seductively.

"Size doesn't matter."

He fingers slipped to the third button; he still saw nothing but bare skin—no, there was a flash of black there somewhere.

"You better be naked under there," he growled.

She bit her lower lip in a pout.

"And if I'm not?" she provoked wantonly, her hands lingering on the last button as she loosened it.

She slid her hands up the coat enticingly until she reached the lapels, and shimmied it off her shoulders in a slow tease—like a stripper putting on a practiced show.

She let the coat fall to the floor, and as it hit, she said:

"What will you do, plunder me?"

Son of a _bitch_.

They were definitely thigh-highs. The thigh highs were the _least_ of his problems.

He managed to identify her costume as _pirate_ before he ceased being able to think in English.

There were thigh-highs and red fishnets and black, tight black shorts—_were they panties or shorts_?—that pulled taught and low over her hips, strategically ragged in the most indecent places, that had red laces up the front, red laces that matched—he dragged his eyes upward slowly, helpless to fight the slack-jawed staring; her midriff was bare—hell, everything was damn near bare; her arms were bare except for gaudy gold bangles, because the pirate-style vest she was wearing was sleeveless—except for the droopy white cuffs around her shoulders—and so _tight_ and it stopped at her ribcage; there was a frayed black lace ribbon that tied messily in the middle, pulling the little eighteenth-century style thing snugly around her chest so it shoved her breasts together and up and had them spilling over the neckline and her breasts, they were a whole different story, there was some sort of white-and-red striped bra under there that wasn't made of material it was sort of made of ribbon and it was hardly functional and provided minimal coverage—so minimal it made his mouth dry.

His jolly roger, so to speak, was no longer at half-mast.

He forced his eyes to her face, lingering on her lips covetously before he reached her eyes again; he made a mental note to rip that eye-patch off soon, because he wanted to look into both her green eyes when was fucking her.

"Ahoy, mate," she said, with a hint of sarcasm. "You're no longer in command of this vessel, so what'll it be: conscription?" she paused, her lips parted and seductive. "Or would you rather be marooned?"

Conscription, he knew that. He was a Marine; he knew conscription. Conscription _meant—ooh,_ forced into service. That one was straightforward; he'd end up _going down_ with his ship—that he didn't mind, he'd always liked the way she wrapped a leg around his neck when he went down on her—but being marooned, what-?

"What's being marooned entail?" he challenged.

It was a struggle to keep his voice steady instead of husky and low.

She made an impressed noise in the back of her throat that wrapped around him in the most deliciously painful way.

"You'd be abandoned, with only a gun and a single bullet," she answered silkily. "Traditionally, that is. In this modern version, well," she flashed a completely sinful smirk at him and slid her fingers from her cleavage to her panties, toying with the laced ribbons there. "You watch me get myself off on your boat."

He bit back a groan. The idea was—it was making it even _harder_ for him to think straight, but as appealing as it was—as hot as the thought of her touching herself was, it wasn't ever something his pride could suffer to see her do when _he_ could be responsible for her coming so—

"Conscription," he chose hoarsely.

Her hand fell away from her corseted panties to her thigh and she inclined her head in acceptance.

"Predictable," she said smoothly, taking a few steps forward.

The click of her heels on the concrete floor made an unholy sound, and he raked his eyes over her costume again.

This was the reason religions decried Halloween as satanic.

Jenny was a saint's worse nightmare and a sinner's wet dream.

Gibbs set his jaw and pushed off the boat, his sander still clutched in one of his hands.

He jerked his chin at her shoulder.

"Your costume's wrong," he provoked gruffly. "You need a parrot."

"And a sword," she added, and lowered her lashes demurely. "You know, I did consider finding some sort of bird to go with this," she said innocently, gesturing down her body before she closed the gap between them in two _gorgeous_ strides. "Then I remembered," she said, leaning close to him, her scantily clad, lithe form fitting up against him. Her lips brushed his ear: "You already have a cock."

He had never been so _pissed_ off that he was wearing clothes.

He fumbled the sander and seized her hips, slamming her lower body into his and holding her there—it was like being doused in cold water, it was such a relief to be touching her and to have that slutty costume rubbing against him.

He looked down at her, his breath ragged, frozen for a split second in admiration of the way she'd rouged her cheeks and so dramatically made-up her eyes with bold black strokes and gold glitter and thick, _fuck-me_ eyelashes—and he couldn't even get started on the wild way she'd curled her hair, doused it in sweet-smelling hairspray, and then shaken it out so it looked like someone had just knotted his hands into it when he tacked her to the mattress.

Gibbs slid his hand up her sides roughly and plunged his hands into her hair with every intention of making sure he tacked her to whatever sturdy surface was closest.

And then, he kissed her, mauled her mouth with desire, fisting his hands in her hair and tilting her head up to meet his abrasive, desperately aroused lips, seeking to stain every inch of his mouth with her lipstick and knock the breath out of her so for a minute she'd remember that she may be wearing the costume, but she was in his territory.

He knew he was powerless against those boots and that outfit, but she had always proven powerless under his mouth.

She managed to fight his kiss off after letting it consume her for a minute, and her breath was ragged—he could feel her breasts moving against his chest. She laughed, overwhelmed and tilted her head back, arching her lower body into him and with that movement regaining her power.

"Your attempt was valiant," she said wickedly. "Mutiny will not be tolerated."

She turned on her heel and walked away from him like she was stomping the runway and _goddamnit_ if her ass wasn't peeking out of those black leather shorts in the most _mouth-watering_ way.

He rubbed his palm on his jeans, cocking his head to drink in the view of her strutting towards the counter, and it was when he heard her pop open the bottle of bourbon that he snapped out of it—a little—and followed after her. He stepped up behind her, his hands sliding over her hips, roaming the back of those bottoms, slipping beneath the hem to stroke bare flesh crisscrossed by red fishnets.

He lowered his mouth to her collarbone and kissed up to her jaw, his lips lingering at her ear possessively.

"Bourbon your brand of Halloween candy, Jen?" he asked huskily, pressing up against her back harder this time, pinning her into the counter. She leaned back into him appreciatively, slipping her hand into her vest and adroitly retrieving tow long, slender shot glasses—_where the hell had she been keeping those_?

"_One_ of the treats hitting the back of my throat tonight," she answered delicately, and he fought another groan down while he controlled the urge to turn her around, throw her up on the counter, and spread her legs right _now_.

She held both shot glasses between her fingers and filled them to the top with Wild Turkey, disregarding the excess that spilled over her fingers. She twisted in his grip and it made him ache to yank her back against him. She handed him his shot glass, transferred hers to her other hand, and then lifted her knuckles to her mouth and sucked the spilled bourbon.

He set his jaw and knocked his shot back like it was a liquid prayer, swallowing the burn with the hope that it would give him the strength to play with her if she wanted to play. He tossed the plastic shot glass next to the bourbon bottle and gave her a challenging look, waiting for her to take hers.

With a look that he could only handle because one of her eyes was covered, she kissed the outside of the shot glass and lowered it slowly, tucking it into her bra and pointing to it with a long, manicured pointer finger.

"You remember how this works from your Marine days, I'm sure," she said, reaching out and tucking her hand into the waistband of his jeans. She pulled him closer and lifted her chin up, exposing her neck, setting her shoulders back for him to dip his head and pull the shot out of her cleavage with his teeth.

He feigned lowering his mouth, and instead made a bold move and plucked it out quick as a flash and upended it, spilling the liquor all over her. The shiver of shock and cold that shook her and induced her to curl into him was worth it.

"Jethro—" she growled, leaning back and narrowing her eyes.

The whiskey was already sticking to her, and he met her uncovered eye with an arrogant smirk that had the unexpected effect of making her want to get down on her knees for him.

"You think you can bust in my basement in some pirate costume and commandeer my ship?" he growled, tossing her shot glass to the counter with his.

"Thought it was a boat," she fired back, her eyes bright and fiery.

"Semantics," he threw _her_ vocabulary into her face smugly and his hands fell to her hips; he spun her and pinned her back to the counter this time, looking down at her from his height, making sure she felt how hard he was while he glared at her.

She let out a breath harshly and moaned; the _tides_ had turned.

"What are you going to do to me, Captain?" she simpered in a breathy purr, pouting her bruised lips salaciously.

Gibbs tightened his grip on her waist and hoisted her up on the counter, reaching for the zipper on her black boots. He lowered his mouth to her knee and kissed her there, sliding the zipper down slowly and then letting the boot fall to the floor; he repeated the action with the other—as much as he liked those stiletto sins, he didn't want to get stabbed in the neck when he had his head between her legs.

The second boot hit the floor with a _thud,_ and Jenny drew one of her legs up, running her fingers down the inside of her thigh.

"Looking for treasure, Jethro?" she asked in a sotto voice.

His hand fell to the red crisscrossing ribbons on her panties and he pulled _slowly—agonizingly_ slowly—on the edge of one.

"X-mark the spot, Jen?" he asked rhetorically, and yanked the tie undone carelessly.

To his astonished delight, the leather panties loosened as if he'd untied a hair ribbon, and he discovered that all he had to do was keep unlacing and—

"Jen," he complimented hoarsely, his hands sliding up her thighs. Damn, she was turned on—his fingers were sipping on the leather panties as he tore them aside and she moaned, reaching out to grip his shoulder.

He shook her hand off and straightened up a little, looking around. He backed away to loud protests from her, and grabbed his workbench, pushing his toolbox to the end of it and dragging it over by the counter. He sat down on the edge and slid his hand over her foot, pinning it to the counter. Her other leg, he let her slide over his shoulder, and he let his hand move up until he was splaying his palm over her tight stomach.

He didn't intend to show her any mercy for her vagrant piracy.

"Oh Jeth—oh, _Jethro,_ _oh yes_," her hands slid over her breasts, down her stomach, and into his hair, and he could taste the spice of bourbon on her skin when his mouth touched her. Her leg curled around his neck like he knew it would.

She bucked her hips towards him, arching her back, seeking the intensity and closeness of his mouth, and he gave it to her, relishing the feel of her hard abdomenal muscles under his palm, the way they contracted and jumped; she talked to him in a maddeningly sexy way that mixed moaning and her throaty whisper—her words were a string of breathless curses and pleas for release—

"Jethro, _fuck_, Jethro," her body shook and she slammed her heel into his back—and that's when he stopped, and he knew it was perfect timing because she let out a strangled, frustrated shriek that was part-pleasure, part disbelief; he'd interrupted her, he'd stopped before she could climb just high enough for the waves to crash over her.

He stood up and pulled her legs around his waist, exercising massive amounts of self control not to unzip and thrust into her right now—he refrained, and he reached up and pulled the eye-patch down and let it hang loosely and messily around her neck.

Her eyes slid closed and she bit her lip, desperate for release.

"What are you—" she gasped, words failing her. _"Why_ did you—stop?" she demanded, her words punctuated by soft gasps. "You bloody scallawag," she moaned.

He shrugged, and leaned over her. He changed his mind; his pride could take making her do it herself.

"Finish yourself," he ordered.

She met his eyes boldly and parted her lips.

"I want your mouth," she said aggressively.

He shook his head.

"This _is_ mutiny, Jen," he asserted. "You're marooned—you're on your own."

She looked impressed and starkly frustrated all at the same time, but she accepted his game change and her hand fell from his shoulder to her stomach and slid lower, and in seconds she was writing around him, squeezing her legs around his hips and using the rough material of his jeans just as much as his hand to bring herself to a climax that was unbelievably sexy to watch—that left him just as winded as it left her.

She threw her head back and pushed her hand through her hair, her body still shaking, riddled with aftershocks, and he was momentarily floored by the way she looked like this—he wasn't sure he'd ever really just _watched_ her come.

He swallowed hard and leaned over her, trailing kisses up her abdomen until he reached the tie of her vest. He tugged at it with his teeth and then pulled the two sides away to reveal the lace-woven red-and-white striped net bra underneath. He memorized the sight, how exquisitely _trashy_ the thing was and how goddamn _perfect_ it looked hugging her breasts, and he reached up and slid the straps off her shoulders and then pulled her into a sitting position.

Her legs slipped from his lower back to dangle near his thighs, heels hitting the backs of his knees, and he suddenly remembered how much he needed to be inside her.

He pressed his mouth to hers, his tongue almost preceding his lips, and she accepted the kiss with a sated, aggressive ferocity that surprised him. Her hands, steadier now, darted between them, pushing at his hips to give her room to maneuver, and she unzipped him and stroked him unforgivingly, the light trail of her nails and the firm press of her palm pushing him too far, too fast—tempting him; he bucked into her hand and groaned into her lips—

"Jen," he panted, forcing her name out, breaking the kiss.

"In sword fights," she said huskily in his hear, "the winner is often determined by stamina rather than skill." She sounded beautiful, like she always did right after she'd come, her voice was lazy and stroked him like something warm and melted—"Pace yourself," she growled delicately.

He shoved his forehead against her shoulder and tightened his muscles, breathing in deeply. He closed his eyes and focused on control, _control—easy,_ Gibbs, _easy,_ she's just a woman—she's just a woman in a Halloween costume with her legs spread around _you_ in _your_ basement, a flesh-and-blood, moaning, sexy, warm, tight—woman—

This wasn't working; he wasn't going to last.

"Jen," he said again, breathing out harshly. "Let me fuck you."

She lifted her knees around his waist and nodded her head—well she was easy to convince—and he reached down and knocked her hand out of the way. He wrapped his arm around her hips, supporting her lower back, and thrust himself into her so roughly he thought he knocked her breath out.

"Oh my god," she squeaked in his ear, clinging to his shoulders.

He groaned in agreement, almost ready to cry—she felt so _good_. He was still for a moment, savoring it, feeling her wet and passionate all over him and struggling with the incredulous fact that half an hour ago he'd been alone with the boat barely acknowledging that it was the most mischievous holiday of the year.

Then the reflective savoring was gone, slipped from his control, and he grabbed Jenny's thighs tightly and shifted back, slamming into her again just as eagerly, meeting her eyes just like he'd sworn to himself he would. Her eyes burned at him, drove him, and then her lips parted and she was gasping again, her breath hitching—he knew she was sensitive, hyper-sensitive; if he could get her _there_ again—

"Jethro," she ground out. "Harder just—Jethro, _Jethro,_ god, just a _little—"_ she broke off with a sharp cry and slapped her palm into his shoulder, catching him off guard with her strength; he faltered, and she nodded. "Jesus don't _move_," she demanded.

It killed him to stop, it took the painful cooperation of every muscle in his body, but stop he did, and then she was crashing over the edge in front of him, breathing it out with her eyes open and boring into his. It was enough to kick him into overdrive, yank him towards the point of no return, and he lunged forward and kissed her; she murmured his name into the kiss, her shoulders slumping.

"Jenny," he said roughly, pressing his lips to her jaw.

She moaned softly, but it was a satisfied moan, and he picked up his rhythm again, no longer worried about her.

She rested her head on his shoulder, holding his biceps tightly, and then moved—and the way she moved was torture—and she caught his eye and leaned toward him swiftly, her lips catching his ear and in a provocative whisper—

"Want me to blow the man down?" she asked.

He swore, bottoming out against her and then leaning heavily into her chest and shoulders, torn by the question. The thought of pulling out was damn near unbearable, but what she was offering was buried _gold_ in it's own right, not matter what stupid pirate euphemism she was calling it by—out of the blue he was picturing the way her throat moved when she shot bourbon, and her words early, her seductive _one of the treats hitting my throat tonight_—and all he could do was nod, and let go of her thighs, and step back.

The loss of contact, as brief as it was, brought another curse to his lips.

He gave her a hand; she hopped off the counter and got to her knees gracefully, using her discarded boots as cushion. He took fistfuls of her hair and when she slid her mouth over him in a long, slow tease, he bit back a shout—and in barely a minute, when he swore he felt the back of her throat hit him, he really did shout and barely kept his knees from buckling when he came.

"Christ," he growled, loosening his tight hold on her hair.

She caught her breath and pressed a gentle, intimate kiss to his thigh before sitting back and shifting to her tailbone. She reached for her coat and spread it over her lap, leaning back against the bottom of the counter languidly. Gibbs stared at her while he got his bearings back—and then he blinked, and swiped the bottle of bourbon from the counter, and sat down next to her, adjusting his jeans and zipping back up.

He handed her the bottle and she took it, taking an impressive drink. She widened her eyes and held her hands to her lips, swallowing without even a wince.

"Drink up me hearties, yo ho," she drawled sexily.

He smirked at her.

"Trick or treat," he said, throwing her words back at her and taking the bottle for his turn.

"Yeah," she agreed, her voice raw and husky.

She relaxed back and collapsed into his side, curling up with the coat and snuggling against him until her head was half in his lap. She sighed quietly, the sound mixing with a content, sated moan.

"I should have been much more drunk for this sort of bullshit," she muttered, half-heartedly gesturing to her costume.

He laughed, and the vibration of it in his chest was soothing; she smiled, enjoying it.

"Shiver me timbers," he drawled smugly, and she shook her head, turning and looking up at him. She cocked an eyebrow, reaching up to her neck to stroke the soft eye-patch he'd been so abusive too.

"Cute, Jethro," she murmured appreciatively. She stretched and licked her lips, still a little dizzy from the intensity of it all. She wrapped her hand around the neck of the whiskey bottle and musically tapped her nails against it.

"You wouldn't _believe_ the ridiculous name of this costume," she said languidly.

"Pirate Pussy?" he deadpanned.

She laughed, her eyes widening slightly. She forgot sometimes his Marine background credited him with a foul repertoire of slang.

"No," she shook her head. "Worse."

Gibbs grunted.

"Yeah? What?"

Jenny sat up, taking the whiskey bottle from him and having another slow burn of a sip. Her red stained lips quirked up at the corner in that irresistible way and her green eyes sparkled amidst all that dark eye make-up.

She snapped the eye-patch back over her eye dramatically and tossed her head, puckering her lips and leaning closer, so he could taste the bourbon on her lips—

"It's called—"

-and she said, in her huskiest, most wicked voice that threatened to put the wind in his sails again—

"_Fuckaneer_."

* * *

_I solemnly swear this is the only time I'll ever refer to someone's cock as a Jolly Roger. It nearly broke my little prude heart to do so in the first place. _

_'Fuckaneer' Buccaneer _

_Now, what are ya'll dressing up as tonight?  
-Alexandra (who'll be cavorting around as a bunny this weekend__)._


End file.
